Deus Necros

It took but a few seconds for the true horror to begin, barely a breath between the shuddering calm that followed the initial blast and the unraveling chaos that surged up from below like a tide of rot. The smore, the thick, grimy smoke and dust born of fire, blood, and debris, had clung stubbornly to the lower parts of the city, veiling all beneath a blanket of swirling grey ash and acrid stench. But no veil could last forever. The haze began to thin, then part, and what it revealed sent a chill through the marrow.

From within the miasma came the sound of countless feet, scraping, stomping, thundering in desperate rhythm. A tide of bodies, hundreds, perhaps more, poured upward from the lower city, a chaotic stampede of flesh that blurred into one another in the panic of flight. But panic turned to something else. The crowd buckled, twisted, and turned inward upon itself. Fists flew, blades flashed, screams morphed into guttural snarls. It was not a rout, it was a slaughter. People were no longer running from something.

They were killing each other.

Celine squinted through the smoke, her lips slightly parted as she tilted her head. Her nostrils flared, a faint grimace creasing her features. “Necromancy,” she said. Her voice was soft, low, but carried the weight of certainty.

“What?” Ludwig turned to her sharply, confusion flickering across his face.

She didn’t blink. “Someone is using necromancy. There are hundreds of them… spreading. I can smell them. I can see them.” Her eyes narrowed further, their pale green iris turning to crimson hue and then deepening, the way a predator’s eyes sharpen at the first scent of prey, or something worse.

Even as her words sank in, the ground trembled beneath their feet. A violent, splintering crack echoed through the street like thunder. Then came the groan, metal bending, stone shrieking. A six-story building nearby, tall and proud a mere moment ago, tilted unnaturally, as if nudged by some vast and careless hand. Then it crumpled, collapsing in on itself with a roar of ruin. Clouds of brick-dust and smoke rolled outward, stinging the eyes and choking the lungs.

It didn’t explode. No fire. No magical discharge. It had been struck. Something had hit it.

A second building fell. Then a third. One after another, stone and mortar yielded like paper to whatever force moved beneath or through the city. The sky darkened as soot rained down like black snow, and each new collapse sent tremors that skittered across the cobblestones beneath their feet.

From the murk and the storm of dust, a shape emerged, hulking, massive, unnatural. Ludwig’s eyes fixed on it, and his grip on his storage ring instinctively tightened. The shape loomed as smoke peeled away, broad wings, glinting metal, a glimmer of eyes too intelligent for any beast.

A Bearowl. The grotesque hybrid’s silhouette was unmistakable. He knew it well. Too well. The same creatures he had faced when the Pied Piper unleashed them against them a few weeks ago. And now here they were again, brought back like marionettes under that same haunting song.

Screams rose in waves. First in the distance, then nearer. A chorus of agony: people being torn apart, shredded, devoured. The cries blended into a nauseating symphony of loss and chaos. The city, once vibrant and dense with life, had become a wailing grave.

Then a voice, strained, trembling, not far behind them, shattered through the noise.

“Hurry, there!”

Ludwig turned his head sharply. A pair of Paladins, armor bloodied and faces pale with dust and fear, barreled down the main road. Their helmets clanged as they were discarded, one tumbling and rolling to a stop against a gutterstone. One of the men stripped off his breastplate mid-run, casting it aside with a cry of effort, as though the weight alone might anchor him to death. They were fleeing, not from battle, but from everything.

“The Shelter is there!” one shouted. They rounded the corner sharply, desperation making their movements clumsy. Sure enough, a reinforced building, stone-ribbed and half-submerged, stood where he’d pointed. One of the city’s emergency shelters. Neither paladin looked back.

Thomas’s voice rose with bitter clarity above the growing din, laced with venomous amusement. “Wow. Such faith. Much bravery…” he muttered with a slow, sarcastic drawl, the words almost spat.

The Knight King, who had until then remained silent, finally stirred. His voice came low, but with that cold iron resonance that seemed to carry its own gravity. “Those who wear the mantle of the protector should die carrying it,” he said. “Not discard it like spoiled cloth. How far this faith has fallen, to see its sworn sentinels scurry like rats when the fire draws near.”

Ludwig didn’t answer at first. He simply watched the corner where the Paladins had vanished, his eyes distant.

“Humans are cowards,” he said finally. The words were quiet, yet absolute. “Even I was once…”

He let the words hang, then reached to his storage ring and summoned Oathcarver. The great blade came free with a sound like cracking bone and rasping breath, its surface gleaming dimly in the smoke-dimmed light.

Celine glanced at him, tension in her posture. “Do you have a plan?” he asked. “Or are you just jumping headfirst into the fray again?”

Ludwig tilted his head slightly, gaze dropping to the smoke-cloaked streets below. “We need to figure out what’s going on first,” he said. “But I can’t go near where the undead are gathering. Or anywhere close to the necromancer.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be the best place to slip in unnoticed? Blend in. You could even backstab the bastard if you get close.” Her voice low enough for Redd not to hear

Ludwig blinked, half-turning toward her. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It is a good plan. But it’s not that simple. This city’s crawling with clerics, paladins, Order fanatics. You never know when one of them’s going to cast some holy nonsense that turns me into glowing ash. I’d rather not take that chance.”

He turned back toward the heart of the city, his expression sharpening his voice loud now. “No. We aim higher. The upper city. The arena. That’s where Titania would be. And the hero, too. Best case, we group up. Worst case…” He didn’t finish.

Redd snorted. “You think they survived that?” He jerked his chin toward the top of the hill, where the colosseum rose like a blackened, broken crown. Flames danced along its edges, and thick smoke bled from every shattered arch.

“She’s tougher than nails,” Ludwig replied. Then he was already moving, boots kicking off the stone as he charged uphill. The others followed.

“The streets are full!” Celine called, already veering off to the side. She didn’t wait for agreement. Her boots struck the wall of a nearby house, vertical, ninety degrees, and she ran up without pause, defying gravity like a shadow in the dusk.

“You’re right,” Ludwig murmured, and with one sharp breath, crouched low and launched himself up like a coiled spring loosed. His body sailed through the air, landing soundlessly atop the slanted roof.

Redd followed without hesitation. His approach was rawer, more physical. He launched from wall to wall in a jagged rhythm, bouncing between the surfaces until he reached the roof’s crest. He landed hard but clean.

Ludwig glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “Quite agile,” he said, impressed.

Redd exhaled but didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah…” The word was quiet, distant. There was no pride in it.

Ludwig didn’t push. He turned, looked ahead across the smoking sprawl of rooftops, and nodded once. “Let’s hurry.”

And together, silent now save for the thud of boots on tile, the three of them sprinted toward the upper city, toward the heart of the ruin.